


summer rain

by sujing



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Merope Lives, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Codependency, Dark, Dreams, Gen, Homicidal Ideation, POV Tom Riddle, Young Tom Riddle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-04-06 10:00:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19060375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sujing/pseuds/sujing
Summary: If Merope had lived. If Tom knew a mother’s love.But it was a twisted love.





	summer rain

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction that uses characters from and the world of Harry Potter, owned by J.K. Rowling.

It was suffocating. Just like the stifling humidity and dizzying heat of summer in the dirty alleyways of London. Always moist, the walls and the cobble, a layer of ancient grime clinging to every surface, irremovable even with the toughest Scouring Charm. Signs plastered the windows and the bricks of every storefront, most faded in the sun or worn ragged by the blowing wind.

He traversed the twisting maze of paths, ducking between bustling throngs of witches and wizards rushing through their daily errands, a dogged determination in his step. It was not unusual for him to be allowed to explore these streets alone, but today was a special occasion.

A small satchel rattled in his pocket, and he placed his hand over it to quieten the sound. It held a handful of coins: five silver and a dozen bronze. A fair amount, given the time, more than his usual monthly allowance of a single Knut.

His eleventh birthday had come and gone months ago, but only now had his mother granted him permission to purchase a wand.

“You don’t need one,” she’d snapped when he first brought up the subject. She’d refused to look at him for a week after, but she acquiesced eventually. He was good at getting what he wanted, good at persuading the unwilling, as long as certain lines were not crossed… And it was all thanks to her.

_(She was his idol.)_

She taught him everything, including right and wrong. She spoke long and often of her parents and her brother (his grandparents and his uncle), told tales of their dastardly deeds and constant abuse. Told the story of how she’d escaped hell with her beloved, only to lose him in the end.

She spoke of how she’d been young and foolish, too much of a push-over to retaliate.

“You make sure to be strong,” she would tell him, “so no one can take advantage of you like they did me.” She told him righteously as she trampled him flat, and he believed her.

He never knew his mother’s family. Never knew his father, though he’d collected so many details on him that they rattled ‘round in his head.

_(All he had was her.)_

His mother made a living through potion brewing, though if he were to voice his honest opinion (he didn’t dare), she had little talent. Her products were barely passable, at times only suited to the seedy corners of Knockturn. What she earned was meagre, only enough to offset the ingredients’ cost and a little extra.

Still, it was a living. It allowed them their independence, and he understood enough of money to realise that it was not so easy raising a child alone. He was expensive, another mouth to feed, another body in need of a warm bed to sleep. At least, he thought, she was not a Muggle.

She loved his father to the point of madness and delusion. She still did, unable to see past the shadow of him.

Though his mother would neither confirm nor deny it, his father had to be alive. Yet he was not allowed to seek him. His father had not wanted him, she insisted in her saner moments.

_(Only she wanted him.)_

The rest of the time, she thought their abandonment a mistake.

The son who shared his father’s name would replace him. And how his mother fawned over him.

“Just like him,” she would whisper as she combed his hair in the morning. “The same dark locks. Dear, you’ll grow to be so handsome.”

Her eyes would glaze over, taking on a dreamy quality. Or maybe it was nightmarish. She didn’t seem quite there when she spoke of the past. Though it was over a decade ago, it wasn’t behind her yet. It might never be.

He tried to stay out of trouble, to not cause her undue difficulty. He fancied himself independent, but every other thought led back to her.

What would it cost to keep her satisfied? What did he have to do to keep her from her mercurial moods? What could he do to drive away the sickening feeling in his gut that he himself ( _not_ his father) was unwanted?

Her approval was everything, as was her love. He knew hers solely. All else was worthless.

_Magic_ was a frequent source of conflict.

Because his father had none, she hated his. It was hypocritical that she was allowed it when he was not. Every slight spark or hum, controlled or otherwise, would send her into a fury. A dark expression would overtake her face like a storm sweeping in from the sea, and he could only avoid the debris tossed into the air. He hated the way she looked at him then—it was full of disgust.

_(She looked at him like one would an abomination.)_

He learned to juggle placating her with his grand ambitions. He wanted to attend Hogwarts, where all the magical children of Britain went, but for her, he would stay behind and study on his own.

He knew he was capable, but it was a sacrifice nonetheless. Classmates meant connections that would become crucial in the future.

He was strung tight, a precarious balancing act held over a chasm of spikes. In his heart, he held a deep-seated spite, a dark desire aimed at his controller, one that threatened to snap at any moment. Yet he could do nothing. He was so accustomed to her constant presence. He was dependent. He needed her to live.

_(Her leash was a noose around his neck.)_

“Ah, hello,” Ollivander said as Tom entered the shop. “What brings you here so early in the day? Heading off to Hogwarts in September?”

Tom nodded stiffly. There was no point in explaining the truth. It would only bring more uncomfortable questions, those of suspicion and unwanted concern.

“Right, then,” Ollivander said, furrowing his brows slightly. He glanced past Tom at the street outside. “Do you have a parent or guardian with you?”

“No.”  _Why would she want to?_ “If you’re worried about whether I can pay, I have money here,” he said, pulling out his satchel. He shook it once and heard the telltale clink of metal against metal. “I’m afraid my mother doesn’t have the time to accompany me.”

“I see.” Ollivander rolled up his sleeves and summoned a worn measuring tape from a drawer along the counter. “Your wand arm?” Tom extended his left. There was a flurry of movement as Ollivander stretched the tape here and there, jotting down numbers on a notepad as he went.

“A moment, please,” Ollivander said before disappearing into a row of shelves.

Tom stood there wondering if his mother had gotten her wand the same way. He had seen it scarce few times—she brought it out only when absolutely necessary, but when she did, she was breathtaking. She was wild and ferocious, like something within her had never been tamed, never properly integrated into civilised society. She was powerful—explosively so. Unpredictable, too.

Once, he had nearly tipped a cauldron over himself, but with unimaginable speed, she had whipped out her wand and thrown him against the wall and away from the spilling contents. He had been terrified, more of her than of the accident he had barely avoided, though perhaps that was due to his young age. The danger hadn’t quite sunken in at the time.

Soon after, she drilled every potion-brewing safety measure she knew into his head, and he absorbed it greedily.

He was left with a scar on his right elbow where he had hit the wall, now almost entirely faded with age. Sometimes, she kissed him there, her rough lips like sandpaper.

“It’ll heal,” she would whisper. “Give it time, my dear, perfect boy.”

_(He would shiver in response, so sweet were her words, grating against his skin.)_

When he finally found his match (a wand of yew, phoenix tail feather for a core), it quivered at the darkness etched in his heart.

* * *

When he saw her again that evening, his hand twitched to his pocket.

It would be so easy with magic. He’d gone over the scenario countless times in his mind already. He would steal her wand, no matter that it was hardly compatible with him, and then a simple cutting curse would be all he’d need.

A quick slash against the throat. A clean spurt of blood. A freak accident and a child so lost without his mother. Crying, sobbing. Begging for her to open her eyes. He’d act the part well.

_(It was too close to the truth, that he was helpless without her.)_

He didn’t, of course. If she died, there would be nowhere but a heartless orphanage to go. But still he yearned. Fantasy was his release, yet it haunted him too.

He dreamt of her every night as they slept in the same cramped bed. Dreamt of placing his hands around her frail throat as she breathed, in and out, and in and out…suffocating her, just as she did him.

She would plead, her sunken eyes rolling in their sockets, and he would not give in.

He was always giving in to her demands. Always forcing himself to please her, to keep her pacified, lest she lash out again. Because she was always right, always the victim. She could do no wrong.

She hated him because he reminded her of  _him._ Despised every little difference between them, punished him for acting the wrong way.

She loved him too, the replacement, on her better days. Though he was always left wondering if it was only when she mistook him for his father…

There was a time when her affection for him was healthy and normal, but they had long since spiralled out of control. She worried and fussed over him, but only out of her own obsessive need to make him perfect where she was not.

He loved her back, his dear mother. How could he not? She who raised him, who gave him all the love and attention in the world, she who fed him warmth and gave him purpose in his life.

He had his ambitions, but they lay in permanent eclipse, shadowed as the stars are by the sun.

He couldn’t live without her. He needed her. Needed her praise like he needed air.

_(But, someday, he might mistake reality for a dream.)_

* * *

It was a month later when she fell ill, just as the August rains came. She wasted away, her already gaunt features ageing years every day. He tended to her, spoke promises of recovery, and all he felt was a serpent constricting around his heart.

Every word felt like feeding her sugar laced with poison. Sometimes, as he wiped sweat from her brow, he would get the sudden, violent urge to press his fingers against her revolting eyes and dig them out.

They followed him everywhere. He was all but confined to her room, her presence even more inescapable than before. She demanded his attention, and he gave it freely.

_(As freely as he could when there existed but a single path before him.)_

“Some fruit, Mother?” he asked one morning, pulling the curtains open to let in what little sun there was. When she gave no reply, he turned back and knelt at her bedside.

“Mother?” he asked again. He reached a hand out to nudge her awake. “It’s almost noon.”

But she didn’t stir. Her forehead was clammy and cold to the touch, and her lips were pale as death.

She  _was_ dead. She was  _dead,_ and it was as if Tom had killed her himself. Maybe he had, with their frequent fights, wearing away at her strength.

He stiffened and froze, the tray he held clattering to the floor.

* * *

He dreamt of her again that night, after the body was collected and the neighbours expressed their condolences. A boy of eleven, he should have been sent away at once, but it only took a little convincing to be allowed to remain.

Alone, in their small house. He had always been mature for his age.

Rain drummed rhythmically against the windows outside, but it could not wash away his senses. There was the smell of wet sewers and stone, but so too was there endless seas of blood.

In the dream, he kissed her for the last time.

“I love you,” he murmured, and she answered with silence. He loved her more in death. She was powerless over him.

_(She was beautiful then, serene and peaceful.)_

He carved out her heart.

He wielded the knife carefully, so as not to spill her precious blood. He would savour every drop. None would go to waste.

It was so sweet. Flowing crimson spilt across his lips, painting them a brilliant red. It stained his teeth, too, as he tore at her flesh, clinging to the crevices between them. He swallowed roughly, pushing raw chunks of flesh down his throat. He gagged as the iron stench of blood filled his nostrils, but still he forced it down.

He was strong.

By consuming her, she became a part of him. She would not leave him again. She would not betray him again.

_(He couldn’t live without her.)_

She would see only him.

* * *

Another month later, Tom stepped foot into Hogwarts. When his newfound housemates asked after his parentage, he had only this to say:

“I never knew my family.”

_(They were dead, or he would make sure of it.)_

**Author's Note:**

> Merope raising Tom ending well? Unlikely.


End file.
